


It's All Coming Back To Me

by staringatstars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: Someone is leaving Crowley notes. This should be alarming, and it is, but not for the reason you'd think.





	It's All Coming Back To Me

**Author's Note:**

> For Whumptober #2 Explosion and Whumptober #4 Human Shield

It was an average day in London, which was to say that it was raining outside. Pouring, really. Crowley had sussed that out before opening his eyes to the muted grays of morning. Everything smelled differently when it was raining. Duller, somehow. The rain muted his senses, making even wakefulness feel dreamlike and surreal.

Groaning, he threw off his sheets with an involuntary shiver, gripping and rubbing his upper arms to get some blood flowing. He’d have a better time of it if he weren’t cold-blooded, but Crowley was convinced that the friction alone had to have some kind of benefit. 

As was often the case, it helped exactly as much as he believed it would. 

After about ten minutes worth of stalling and gradually inching towards the edge of his mattress, he swung his bare legs over the side, grumbling without pausing for breath about the weather, the cold tiles, and the mortifying ordeal of existence in general, but also his specifically. 

He snapped on a pair of form-fitting women’s jeans - they hugged his hips nicely, though the whole lack of pockets was… Well, while he could admire prioritizing a bit of flash and style over function there were some temptations he’d rather hoped would be thwarted and the missing pockets were definitely somewhere near the top of that list. 

Below Nero - though Crowley didn’t actually think he should shoulder all the blame for how _that_ one turned out - and above paper straws. Don’t get him wrong, he was extremely proud of the frustration they caused, and Anathema largely approved of them on the merit that they were more environmentally friendly than plastic, but every time he received one with his iced coffee when all he wanted was an early morning pick-up he had to struggle against the urge to miracle the impostor cylinders off the planet. 

In any case, that was a minor annoyance that future Crowley could contend with. Present Crowley was deciding what to wear in addition to his more-than-you-can-afford jeans. He decided to go for a loose Victorian-inspired shirt, black with ruffles at the collar, and a velvet dress coat. Giving the entire outfit a once-over, he smirked, “Fetching,” then opened up his nightstand drawer for the timepiece he’d taken to wearing. 

It was when he was rummaging past a deck of cards that he may or may not have confiscated from Aziraphale’s stash of magic props - _if the angel asked him, ‘Is this your card?’ one more time he was going to do something drastic, he just knew it_ \- that he came across a piece of folded parchment. Now, Crowley lived a largely minimalist lifestyle. He liked to wear expensive watches and drive a vintage car because those were the sorts of things the human he was trying to be would do, but while his possessions were of good quality, they were few and far between. Meaning that pieces of parchment did not just miraculously appear in his nightstand. 

He eyed it warily, half-expecting it to jump at him. When enough time had passed, he decided to take his chances and unfold it, revealing looping cursive letters written in his own hand. 

_ **Go to Aziraphale** _

“Now, see here,” Crowley began, revving up for an argument with an inanimate object, “if you’re going to tell me to do something, then I’m just going to assume that’s exactly the thing I shouldn’t be doing.”

He turned the parchment over. 

_ **The angel’s in danger** _

Biting back a curse, Crowley crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it. By the time it’d fallen to the ground he was already out the door and taking the stairs two at a time down to the ground floor where his Bentley was parked by the sidewalk. The second he was in the driver’s seat the vehicle roared to life, rocketing down the crowded streets of Mayfair on its own accord while Crowley focused on calling the bookshop, his mind filled with images of smoke and fire and - _too late, too late, too late_

His lips curled in a snarl, “Answer the bloody phone, Aziraphale!” 

The Bentley careened through Soho, tires screeching and smelling of burned rubber, until finally coming to a sudden stop in front of _A.Z. Fell’s_. In his haste to rush into the store, Crowley lurched out of his seat, hopping over the curb and running to the wooden door adorned with a Closed sign. There were no firefighters, no smoke, and yet the terror coursing through him froze him to the marrow.

He couldn’t lose Aziraphale. Not again. 

He wouldn’t survive it. 

Before he could even manage to knock, the door flew open. Aziraphale’s voice called out, “My dear, I don’t know if you saw the sign, but we’re closed at the moment.” Crowley choked back an undignified sound. “However, if you’d like to come in for a cup of tea and a chat, I’d be more than amenable - Oh!” The angel had poked his head out, catching sight of Crowley. A smile cut across his face, bright as a solar flare. “Crowley. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” He worried his lip, glancing up and down the sidewalk for the human in the middle of a nervous breakdown he’d thought he’d sensed. Crowley pointedly kept his face down, refusing to make eye contact. Clearing his throat to break the silence, Aziraphale tried, “Well, aren’t you going to come in?”

Oh, but that was the question, wasn’t it?

How was he meant to tell the angel that a weird note written in his hand had told him to rush to the bookshop. Clearly, he was fine, so maybe it was just paranoia?

At some point, Aziraphale must have herded him into the bookshop, because the next thing he knew he was being seated on the sofa. There was already a cup of chamomile tea on the table, and while Crowley wasn’t particularly fond of chamomile, he appreciated the effort, regardless. Apparently, Aziraphale had put two and two together and realized there had never been a _human_ in crisis standing outside his shop. 

One of the cushions moved when Crowley shifted, uncovering another piece of parchment. He glared at it, willing it to burst into flame. It stubbornly refused. 

While Aziraphale was still bustling in the kitchen, he finally gave in to curiosity, unfolding it with a huff of annoyance. 

_ **Quit acting like an idiot** _

“And whose fault is that?” Crowley hissed venomously at the words. 

When Aziraphale returned, it was with a second cup of steaming tea for himself and a towel. Crowley blinked when it was offered to him, unsure of what he was meant to do with it. With a put-upon sigh, the angel draped it over his head, which Crowley realized belatedly was soaked from the rain. “Sorry,” he muttered. “‘m getting your pillows wet.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Think nothing of it, dear boy.” He settled into the armchair, cupping his mug. “Now, are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?”

As usual, Crowley’s first instinct was to deny that anything was wrong, except he’d shown up drenched at the angel’s doorstep and then apparently checked out for several minutes, none of which made the claim that he was perfectly fine the least bit believable. 

He supposed he could always… show Aziraphale the notes. 

Then again, showing the angel notes written in his own handwriting was bound to make him look completely insane, so maybe strike that.

Bad idea.

A second piece of folded parchment appeared next to his cup. It certainly wasn’t out of place in a bookshop, except it hadn’t been there a moment ago. Frowning, Crowley briefly put the angel out of his mind.

_ **Get down** _

As soon as the word sunk in, alarms went off in his head. He leaped from the sofa, lunging across the space between him and the angel to tackle Aziraphale to the ground. A canister shaped like a grenade shattered the bookshop’s window, followed by an explosion of blinding white light. Fortunately, Crowley’s shades dampened the effect. He thought Aziraphale had closed his eyes in time, but didn’t stop to check. Instead, he sprung to his feet, placing himself directly between the angel and whatever was about to walk through the front door. 

This time, he heard the crinkle of parchment under his lapel. It was the last note. 

Somehow, he knew this. 

The letters were shaky this time. Barely legible.

_ **I’m sorry. This is going to hurt, but you know who it’s for** _

At the same time, the doorknob rattled violently, drawing Aziraphale’s attention. It was a ruse. The real threat came from the shattered window. There was a glint of gold, the sound of a projectile, and though it sought out an angel, it found a demon. The holy blade sank deep into his flesh, blessed steel biting and burning. Corroding. 

He heard Aziraphale shout when his legs collapsed, knees slamming against the floor with bruising force. There was a silhouette standing in the doorway, though not for long. Now that he wasn’t being taken by surprise, Aziraphale banished the intruder without a second thought. 

_The Guardian of the Eastern Gate_, Crowley thought with pride. _They always underestimate him._

He didn’t know when Aziraphale had started cradling his head. If this was dying, it wasn’t quite as bad as he’d always feared it would be. “Are you,” a painful cough wracked him. His muscles stiffened, “hurt at all?”

Even though he was certain Aziraphale had replied, Crowley couldn’t make sense of it. Everything sounded as though it was coming from a distance. When the burning in his chest dulled to a far away ache, Crowley closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, he was standing in his flat, watching himself sleep.

“This must be how Aziraphale feels,” Crowley muttered bitterly. He’d already finished writing the first note. He’d been practicing interacting with physical objects for several hours, focusing on the correct place, the correct time, the look and feel and weight of the object he wanted to hold. He practiced until the words in his mind matched the words on the page exactly, then miracled the paper into the nightstand drawer to save time. 

It was interesting to watch his thoughts from the outside. Watching the other Crowley reading his note, he was able to pinpoint the exact moment suspicion turned to raw terror, and followed silently, observing the cars and pedestrians that narrowly avoiding colliding with him with mild amusement. 

The second note was just a bit of fun. The other him was an unresponsive mess when Aziraphale ushered him inside. Crossing his incorporeal arms, Crowley watched himself read the note with a smirk that only grew when the dull look on his face was quickly chased off by indignation. 

He wished he’d found a way to share his troubles with Aziraphale, or at least to have had one last normal conversation with him before he’d… before he’d done whatever it was demons did when they were impaled with a holy blade. 

On that note, seeing himself die had to have been one of the strangest experiences of his very long life, but witnessing Aziraphale’s grief was somehow worse. 

“Am _I_ hurt?” He exclaimed, strangled. “How can you even ask such a thing when you’re in this state?” He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. “Don’t worry, Crowley. I’ll have you all fixed up in a jiff.” He snapped his fingers again and the blessed dagger vanished, yet the wound it had dealt did not heal. Aziraphale made a wounded sound, as though someone had reached into his essence and torn out some vital part of him. He curled over the demon’s body, tears dripping down his cheeks. 

“I can’t leave him like this,” Crowley whispered to the ether, to the endless expanse of non-existence that yawned enticingly on the other side of reality. “I have to go back.”

He didn’t just want to die for Aziraphale. He wanted to live for him.

And in death, as he’d been in life, Crowley was not satisfied with half measures. 

Abruptly, his body convulsed, instinctively dragging in a breath, and Crowley was looking up at Aziraphale’s tearstained face. The angel pressed a desperate kiss against his forehead. “I knew you couldn’t be gone.” It burned with holiness, with will, with purpose and intent. Unrelenting, comforting, and warm.

_Oh_, Crowley thought wonderingly. _It was you._


End file.
